


we have lost even this twilight

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (sort of), Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Season/Series 01, the much-loved 'keith and shiro were together before kerberos' fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21560542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Shiro knows there’s a marriage. He just pretends he doesn’t.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 238





	we have lost even this twilight

**Author's Note:**

> Taken taken from Pablo Neruda's "We Have Lost Even." 
> 
> _We have lost even this twilight. / No one saw us this evening hand in hand / while the blue night dropped on the world._

Shiro wakes up.

Beside him, there’s someone familiar—jaw sharper and cheeks more hollow—but unmistakably Keith.

He can’t quite believe it. This could be another one of Haggar’s tricks. But it doesn’t seem to line up with her usual modus operandi: a snarling version of himself with the Galra golden eyes; endless replays of lives being snuffed out between his fingers; being strapped down to that table.

No one here knows about Keith, but Shiro doesn’t know that for sure. Haggar can get inside his head, though, and who says she can’t read his mind? Any moment now, Keith will open his eyes and snarl at him, eyes golden and deadly, maybe rip out his throat with shining fangs—

But none of that happens. Keith sleeps on, pressing his cheek further into a bundled-up jacket Shiro’s never seen before. And this shack, the murmuring old radio equipment, the strange slash across the headboard—and the air itself feels different, too. There’s the dry heat making his legs tangled in the blankets sweat, the taste of morning breath and dust in his mouth, soft snoring and occasional sleep-muttering coming from the front room.

Haggar can’t make this up, make this seem so _real_.

Shiro slowly reaches out with his left hand—cautiously, as if it’s another weapon—and moves to touch Keith’s cheek. His coordination’s still a bit off, so, instead, his fingertips graze against a thin, silver chain—

He yanks his hand away, heart pounding. Careful not to disturb Keith, he slips out of bed and shucks off his prisoner’s rags—he hopes there’s a shower in the near future—and changes into the clothes on the foot of the bed, bright pink Post-It scrawled in familiar handwriting.

The clothes against his skin feel slightly dusty-smelling and stiff. It’ll take a while to get used to them, but he knows these are Keith’s dad’s old uniform. Armor. He can work with that.

His head’s still fuzzy from the drugs the Garrison pumped into him, but when Shiro steps from the dark shack out into the brightening horizon, he sees the cliff.

They’d held hands here, trembling with secretiveness and giddiness, as Matt—freshly ordained from the Internet—read the vows. Shiro wore his leather jacket and had goggles slung around his neck, and Keith, his only change of civilian clothes: a red jacket and too-long jeans. All had ridden their hoverbikes out together, and Matt had immediately taken off when Keith started to drag Shiro into the shack…

 _This was my dad’s._ A monsoon ricocheting against the windows. Laughter _._ Hoverbikes zooming across stretches of rock. _Come on, try to keep up!_ Scurrying up stairs and punching through to the cool air. Hesitant lips against his. _I steal your car and you bail me out?_ Gazing up at Calypso. Leaning his head against a bony shoulder. Wrapping hands in thick bandages. Punching the air. _Kerberos!_ Picking Keith up, whirling around the room. _Will you marry me?_ A gold ring, dug out from box with old pictures. Keith’s left hand, carefully curled up in a fist the entire ceremony. His own voice, rueful and apologetic and straining not to laugh: _I thought my grandfather had smaller fingers!_

Shiro fumbling with the dog tags around his neck and holding them out, Keith slipping the ring through it like a bead.

And standing on the cliff, Shiro rocks back and forth in place, trembling. He can’t breathe. It’s real. He’s home. The Galra took his arm and his memories, but not Keith. Keith, with the silver chain around his neck.

Keith, who didn’t choose this. And he won’t have to.

* * *

Maybe, Keith thinks, this is a good thing. Shiro doesn’t remember the details of what the Galra did to him, what he had to do to survive.

Keith immediately changes his mind when he sees Shiro’s eyes when Sendak first appears on the princess’s screen; when sharp gasps escape Shiro’s mouth when they’re at Central Command; when Shiro freezes in place as the gladiator lunges at him.

Shiro _does_ remember—enough.

It hurts to admit, but no matter how much Keith tells himself he knew the real Shiro, stripped from the layers of the Galaxy Garrison’s star pilot, he now can’t recall seeing Shiro this vulnerable. This raw fear—far from existential or overthinking.

Keith first thinks: he doesn’t know Shiro at all.

But again, he changes his mind. He sees Shiro, coaxing them through another round of drills, carefully but firmly standing up to Allura’s demands, backing away from another of Coran’s concoctions. He also sees him standing on the observational deck, looking out into the stars.

He might not know how to help, but he knows Shiro is there. He’s gotten to know Shiro once, and he can do it again.

* * *

Shiro slips into the de facto leader of the group, and holds himself in a careful, authoritative role. Honestly, it makes it easier for him to hold onto the vestiges of his self-control from his time with the Galra.

But he misses these things: waking up with Keith, reluctantly slipping out of bed, tiptoeing around patrolling officers. Mock-saluting and ruffling hair and stealing kisses in corridors. Sneaking up onto the roof to have an impromptu picnic or slipping into Keith’s shack on the weekends after a hoverbike race.

He remembers Keith swooping over the cliffs, wind in his hair and head titled back in mid-laugh. Keith, twirling a stylus around in his fingers, staring down a passage with the determination only coffee and a deadline can make. Keith, in cadet orange outside the too-hot building of the military ball, hands careful on Shiro’s shoulders, stepping in an unfamiliar dance underneath the stars.

They were just kids, Shiro thinks. They never really knew the world, and it was evident in the way they got spontaneously engaged and married in the same day. 

He misses that innocence, though, even though he can't afford to. 

_This is my husband_ , he thinks when he looks at Keith. Keith, his hands deft and sure in wielding weapons of war. Keith, spinning around training droids with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Keith, at his controls on the bridge and still too-long bangs dangling in his eyes. _Husband_. 

The word is as constant as a heartbeat. _My husband,_ he thinks as Keith rests his head on the arm of the couch after a long day of training. _My husband_ , he thinks as Keith takes down one of the gladiator droids with ease and a smirk. _My husband,_ he thinks as Keith lunges at Sendak—

And when he crashes into the ground and he won’t get up but manages to kick Sendak into a barrier and he’s inches away from battering claws and Shiro was useless and he couldn’t save him if Sendak wasn’t distracted by Pidge and _he could have_ —

“Shiro?” asks Keith. In the hallway. Stripped down to his t-shirt and jeans. Safe. “Shiro, are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” he manages. He wants to look over Keith, make sure his wounds aren’t too bad. That’s what he did before, right, before everything?

And before he’s aware, Shiro lifts up Keith’s shirt with the ease of doing it many times. He can hear Keith’s breath hitch when he reveals the bare expanse of Keith’s stomach, mottled by an already-darkening bruise.

“Keith,” he says softly. “This is worse than you let on.”

“I’m okay,” Keith insists.

Shiro gently presses against his ribs, a slight hissing escaping from Keith. He’s careful as he can, wondering if Keith’s ribs are broken. “Does it hurt when I touch it?”

Keith laughs, a bit breathlessly. “Only because you’re poking it, Doctor Shirogane.”

“ _Seriously_ ,” Shiro chides, then raises the shirt up further, intent on listening to his chest for shallow breathing, thumb brushing against Keith’s bare skin. “You can’t let yourself get even more hurt because of your stubborn—"

The chain dangles into view, along with a flash of gold, and Shiro freezes, just as Keith’s hand shoots out and closes over it protectively. For one horrible moment, they lock eyes, wordlessly staring at each other, Shiro still stupidly holding onto the hem of Keith’s shirt.

Keith clears his throat, and Shiro slowly releases the fabric, pulling back, watching Keith exhale in relief as he carefully unwinds his fingers, tugging down his shirt. He looks at Shiro, eyes wide, stepping backwards.

Shiro doesn’t know what to do. Should he ask what the chain was? Pretend he hadn’t seen it? What would he have done, if he’d truly stayed ignorant of his…

 _Husband_.

It's such a grown-up word. He wonders if Keith's thought of it, if he held it this close to his chest while Shiro was in the arena, ring burning on the chain like a secret. He was a husband. Shiro was his husband. Well. He wonders now if it still counts, with him being declared dead—

If they'd been too young to marry, Keith had been too young to be a widower. 

_Widower_. Keith, a widower at eighteen.

He’s despicable. He really is.

Keith’s still not looking at him. “Um.” His voice is low, awkward. “I think I’m okay. Really. But I’ll see Coran about it when he comes back, okay?”

“Okay,” Shiro manages, and Keith gives him the barest of smiles.

“Get some rest,” he says softly, then briefly touches Shiro’s arm before walking away, footsteps heavy and slow.

* * *

It’s movie night, ostensibly an opportunity for them to bond as paladins, but Keith knows everyone wants to get downtime. Lance in particular, he senses, wants to do the old middle school yawn-and-shoulder-hug with Allura, but’s thwarted when Pidge plops down next to the princess, then Hunk follows, nearly spilling popcorn everywhere.

“Hey!” Lance squeaks. “I was going to sit there!”

Pidge looks up at him and rolls her eyes. “Just sit next to Hunk. He has the popcorn anyway.”

Lance sputters, but dejectedly takes a seat and shoves a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. Allura has her own bucket, reaching into it curiously and delicately nibbling at a piece before beginning to dig in with appreciative noses. Coran’s projecting Pidge’s laptop screen onto the wall, flipping through the different movies—“sounds like a rip-off of an old romance flick Alfor and I used to watch after nasty break-ups!”—and Keith’s trying to reach for the candy bowl and array of drinks in front of them without touching Shiro.

Shiro’s next to him, seemingly amused at Coran’s commentary, and lightly scolding Hunk and Lance for an impromptu popcorn fight, Pidge complaining how long Coran is taking to choose a movie, with Hunk nixing a horror film, to only to be outvoted by everyone else.

The lights dim, and the opening credits begin to play with ominous piano music, Pidge snickering eagerly as Lance leans forward and Hunk buries his face in a nearby cushion. Shiro’s relaxed against the couch, and Keith’s trying to act nonchalant, pulling his legs up and sipping on his drink. He tries not to remember the movie dates, sharing earpieces connected to Shiro’s datapad with quilts and snacks from the vending machine on the floor, Shiro not being able to get through any of the movie without snarky comments or poking holes in the plot. He remembers shoving Shiro when he’d spoiled another detail on movie one of a trilogy, Shiro laughing guiltily and kissing the back of Keith’s ear in apology—

 _Stop,_ he tells himself, trying not to fidget with the ring.

Eventually, he’s able to relax, with the familiar plot and cheesy lines and disgusting effects. Hunk’s muttering, “Don’t go in there, don’t go in there, don’t go in there” at regular intervals, with Allura tilting her head and making amused noises as another character does something stupid. Coran’s shouting at the screen, Lance is howling, and Keith’s thinking it’s a good thing Pidge thought to put the subtitles on when another jump scare occurs, sending Hunk into another round of shrieks, causing Lance to start shrieking with laughter.

Shiro’s leaning against his shoulder, arm stretched out on the back of the couch, eyes lazily watching. The silence makes Keith uneasy; either Shiro would be mock-screaming or making fun of the dialogue or forgetting the movie entirely and— 

“Ugh, I can’t,” Lance suddenly groans, burying his face into Hunk’s shoulder when the amputation scene begins, and Allura grimaces, putting down her drink. Coran makes horrified noises, with Pidge staring, a piece of space candy halfway up to her mouth. Keith turns away slightly, feeling a bit queasy—maybe because of the amount of sugar he’s consumed in the last hour.

“You okay?” Shiro asks.

As nonchalantly as he can, Keith shrugs. “Just a lame effect,” he begins, turning to Shiro, but pauses. Shiro’s staring blankly at the screen, as a bite of a saw slices through the protagonist’s arm, and Keith tenses at a jagged scream. His face is pale in the dim light.

Keith instinctively buries his face into Shiro’s stomach. Shiro’s hand comes down on his head. “You okay there?” 

He doesn’t answer. Shiro’s fingers start combing through his hair, and he can sense Shiro’s not looking anymore, heartbeat easing the more he touches Keith. He lies quiet and still, allowing Shiro to calm, trying his best not to nuzzle into his touch.

“Oh, come on, Mullet, it’s not that bad!”

He raises his head, giving Lance a short glare. “Says the guy who clutched to Hunk for dear life.”

“Says the guy who’s hiding in Shiro’s lap!” Lance retorts.

Keith tenses, and it’s Shiro who speaks: “Quit it, you two.”

“Yeah, shut up,” Pidge says, “we’re almost at the end.” 

It ends with most of the cast dying, but the protagonist survives. Keith turns away when he kisses his girlfriend, desperate and trembling, clutching at her as she rocks him in her arms, the camera slowly zooming in on her eyes, inky black and demonic, as more ominous music plays.

“What happens next?” Coran demands, as the credits begin to roll.

“Eh, possession, the power of love, all that crap,” Pidge replies. “Sorry, Coran, didn’t download—er, _procure_ —the rest of the series.”

“We’re watching a rom-com or a musical next!” Hunk demands, with a shudder. “That almost made me lose my space popcorn.”

“Hunk, what makes you think _I_ have a rom-com on here?”

“Do you have a heart of stone?”

“Maybe the Castle has a similar film?”

“Sorry, paladins, they’re all in Altean—”

“And they’re terrible, anyway.”

“Princess!”

As Coran and Allura begin bickering over different Altean movies, including one where it sounds like some character turns into a star and another leaps into a volcano, Pidge queues up another movie, shoving off Hunk and Lance when they try to change the selection. Keith leans against the couch arm, closing his eyes.

Eventually, he wakes up, realizing he’s dozed off, but looking around, realizes everyone has, too. The movie’s still playing in the background. Coran’s snoring loudly, while Lance and Hunk and Pidge have various limbs dangling off the couch, Pidge’s glasses slipping off her nose. Allura’s crown is tilted on her forehead, and the mice have cuddled on her chest, whiskers twitching.

Shiro’s head is on Keith’s shoulder, breathing heavily through his mouth, something Keith’s never known Shiro to do. It must be the wound cutting across his face, and Keith clenches his fists, wishing he can get up and tear the entire Empire to shreds for hurting Shiro.

He wants to whisper something to Shiro in the dark, but doesn’t dare. Instead, he rests his head on top of Shiro’s and tries to fall back asleep.

* * *

There are more battles. Shiro grows more and more tired, but must keep on, encouraging as always.

But it all comes to a head when the crystal corrupts the castle, when their home turns against them, when Sendak roots in his head and lays all his fears bare—

 _Face it. You’ll never beat Zarkon. He’s already defeated you._ Claws at his throat. Blood spilling between his fingers. A purple cloak, silver hair, gnarled hands. _Champion._ Forcing him down on the table, hand bound in metal, the first slice into his arm—

He’s wide-awake in an instant—who’s _screaming_?—and realizes it’s him.

And he sees Keith’s in the doorway, hair tangled and looking alarmed, and before he can think, crushes Keith to his body. He's alive. He's alive. Sendak is gone, Keith is here with him, and he's alive. “Keith,” he breathes. “Keith, you're okay.”

“Shiro—”

“Please,” Shiro whispers, holding him closer. “Not now.” He folds himself into Keith’s body, feels the heartbeat thrum against his own chest. _Husband, husband, husband._ This time, he takes the word as comfort, selfish as it may be. _You are my husband. You are here with me. You are safe._ But he isn’t safe, not really— _stop, stop, stop, I will make him safe, Voltron will make the whole universe safe—but what about Zarkon, what about his empire, stronger than any Earth army and across the whole galaxy, there are just five, and he’s no leader, he can’t—Sendak was right—_

“Sendak?” Keith’s voice is muffled, but Shiro can hear him just fine. “What did he say?”

Panic surges. How much had Keith heard? How long had he been raving like a lunatic? “It doesn’t matter,” he quickly replies.

“It’s bothering you,” Keith says firmly. “Of course it does.”

Shiro only holds him closer. “I can’t,” he admits. He can feel the ring pressing into his shirt. “God, Keith, I can’t. I c—” He forces himself to focus, focus on the indent digging into his chest, on the coolness of the tile on his bare feet, on the heat of Keith’s body. _My husband._

Keith’s lips graze his ear. “Whatever he said, he’s wrong,” he hisses. “Sendak’s…he’s—he’s a piece of shit, just Zarkon’s soldier for the Empire, a completely bloodthirsty sadist, nothing but damaged goods—”

_“So am I.”_

It’s so loud that Keith jerks back, breaking out of his embrace, and Shiro flinches when he sees Keith, eyes wide—but this is who he is, what he feared to be, _a monster like you—_

Then, softer, Shiro repeats it: “So am I.”

But Keith takes Shiro’s hand, his right hand, slowly entwining it in his fingers, gaze in his eyes so intense that Shiro doesn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what you went through. But I know you’re _nothing_ like Sendak,” Keith says in a low voice. “You’re nothing like the Galra. You’re our leader. You’re the Black Paladin. You’re—”

His lips shape the word, and Shiro prays, caught in between hope and fear of the acknowledgement: _Husband._

* * *

He wants to say it, so desperately. But this isn’t about him. This is about Shiro, first and foremost. And he can’t have revelations like this, not now. Not like this.

“You’re Shiro,” Keith says at last.

Shiro’s still looking at their hands, and just barely, his grip tightens.

“Will you stay with me?” he asks softly, as if admitting a weakness.

“Always,” Keith whispers, and with that word, knows whatever happened to Shiro, no matter who he was and what he’d done to get back to him, Keith would be there.

It feels more significant than their marriage vows, giddy and fumbling, ready to jump off that cliff together—but they didn’t know, did they? What did they expect after Shiro came back from Kerberos? A fantasy, probably—a shared apartment and two-pilot missions and laughing at Iverson’s face. They didn’t really talk about it; Shiro was on the launch pad barely a day later.

Even now? Would he have said yes?

Keith guides Shiro back to the bed, pulling the covers both of them and wrapping his arms around Shiro’s still-trembling body. _Of course,_ he thinks.

* * *

It’s been two weeks since they started sleeping together.

And Shiro means it—sleeping. In the same bed. Platonically.

The paladins, he’s sure, thinks it's some carnal thing; he's seen Hunk looking their way during breakfast and flushing dark red. Lance doesn't help, whispering in Hunk's ear and making him flush even darker, and throwing salacious winks. Allura keeps finding ways to pair them in team exercises. Even Coran's dropped a hint about “a lovely meadow upstairs, if you want some privacy.” Pidge, thankfully, doesn't seem to notice or care, typing furiously on her laptop or muttering over another Altean device. 

It’s weird, everyone seeming to know. He remembers how it was: skirting along blind spots in the Garrison cameras, slipping around Iverson or Sanda or another officer or classmate, sneaking glances at each other during simulations practice. Every kiss, every touch, every word—a secret. A corner to hide, a door to shut, a whisper to be stifled.

In a way, it was almost fun, teasing the edges of insubordination; it was also—quite immature of him, Shiro thinks now—the craziest thing he, the sick boy and the dutiful son and the Galaxy Golden Boy, had ever done.

Craziest—well. He has a few words for his past self.

Shiro would be tempted to say it's the adrenaline. Frankly, it would be easier if they _were_ sleeping together; at least they could both write it off as hormones and the threat of ever-looming death and being the only ones out here.

But _this_ is tender, them curling up against each other in the dark, Keith breathing softly in his ear. He fits so easily, head tucked into the crook of Shiro's neck, chest meeting Shiro's, smelling something like mint and violet. Keith’s still a heavy sleeper, and Shiro wonders if it's because of his presence, then pushes it out of his mind.

For now, though, he tries to hold onto what he can, even when he’s sure he’s dying, Haggar’s wound eating into his ribs. He still sees the Black Lion, fierce and protective, standing over his body with her tail swishing dangerously. A roar shattering the silence of the canyon. The gray lizard creatures fleeing in terror. Keith leaping out of the pilot’s seat, stumbling and breathing heavily, hair tangled.

 _God, he’s beautiful_ , Shiro remembers thinking.

“Keith,” he says. _You’re my husband._ “If I don’t make it out of here…” _I love you._ “I want you to lead Voltron—”

Keith interrupts him, denial coating every syllable: “Stop talking like that. You’re going to make it.”

Shiro coughs. “Keith,” he tries. “I…” He feels so tired. But he can turn his head, at least. See one last thing. And it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. “Keith…”

Light bathes his face, blinding bright blue, but he keeps looking at Keith.

* * *

Keith knows every second he stares up at Shiro in that healing pod. _‘_ _Til death do us part,_ he repeats, like a spell that’ll make everything all right, as quiet as a child’s plea in the dark. _‘Til death do us part._


End file.
